Monday, November 29, 2021

Roxanne's Beads

Between 10th and 13th Streets

from Third Avenue through Alphabet City

each corner was staked

claimed with the blood, urine and broken jewelry of the female barkers

fleshy menageries of the drugged and enslaved.

Some with the bud of youthful beauty

new to the trade

others hardened and misshapen

using layers of dollar store makeup and bangles to hide the bruises

all smoking cigarettes

glossy eyed expressions displaying

boredom, fear, anticipation, hope and hopelessness

in equal measure

while admonished by my mother

to give them wide berth

I would go out of my way to say hello to them all

so they knew they were seen.

Each morning the path to school

was marked with cracked corners and a cornucopia of beads

evidence of the evening's violence

plastic, crystal, brass, glass and clay

I would ceremoniously collect them

a street urchin's treasure

wondering if I'd ever see the wearer again

most often not

hardened lost souls

we never heard cries for help

buried beneath the din of drunken revelers

Hell's Angels and sirens.

My bead box

now in the back of my closet

a forgotten homage

 to the disposable

keeps safely

the ghosts of these now gentrified streets

where escorts now carry cell phones and can afford to live in 

"market rate" apartments. 



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